Before I address the March 9 review of the album “Fear of a Black Tangent” by Busdriver, as written by Cameron McDonald on the Pitchfork Media Web site (with an apt duet of opening sentences, I daresay), I must pause briefly in order to dip my fingers into this inkwell of liquid silver. These fingers deserve nothing but the most precious of treatments as it were, as they deliver the proverbial shower of gold to the mercurial Pitchfork Media, in the incarnation of these words upon the monitor. Or – is it I who am the monitor? In which case, I would lay these ten silvery digits upon myself. But what a scandal that would be! Aha. Aha. Ah, yes.
So before I commence to commentating, like a mushroom cloud of isolated magnesium flung slipshod into that whole two-hydrogens-and-one-oxygen cliché (I know people say we need it to live, but I survived for twelve long years between Kevin Shields projects, so why don’t you just sell me some phlogiston with that) in a barrel tighter than the latest Greg Goldston joint – and I’m about to – I must summon my servant girl Danae to swab my brow for me. Gently now, Danae. That’s it. Now validate me, won’t you? Tell me I have cred. Yes, yes. And I think you are special as well, Danae. But not really – seeing as how you are unfamiliar with Prefuse 73, a notion I cannot even fathom. So run along now, and try to make some trifling semblance of a life for yourself. I wish you luck, as your battle will be truly Sisyphusian. What with you never having heard of Prefuse 73 and all. I cluck my tongue derisively for you, Danae. And I lament this meaningless void in which you presumably exist as a result of these unspeakable shortcomings of yours. Hopefully the bittersweet mysteries of Darwinism will soon spirit you away to the land of Coheed and Cambria, and put you out of my misery forever.
So now allow me to return my attention to the Pitchforkians, who are as Goliath to my David upon those fabled hills near Bethlehem. Or if you prefer, they are – with a nod to The Decemberists and the Pat Speights of the world – the Balor to my Lugh, the Concubar to my Cet.
And I will battle them here, not for lordship over the Philistines et cetera, but rather over an issue with slightly higher stakes – the quality of indie rock commentary on the Internet. And instead of a single humble stone, I unleash now these ten silvery digits, which will dash upon the edificial forehead of the mighty Pitchfork as a wave against the famed (and, I might argue, dubiously so) White Cliffs of Dover! For I am a modern day Hobbehod, truly a man of the proletariat, and I will stop at nothing to see that satisfaction is rendered, to myself.
I have just realized I didn’t mention anything specific about the Pitchfork review in question. What a frustrating and anticlimactic waste of time this must seem to you. Well – ho hum. These kinds of issues must not be allowed to congest a mind of such consequence as mine. Ask the Pitchforkians – for they appear to feel this way as well. So eat cake, Danae, and everyone else out there. Eat cake. And let me know how it tastes. No wait, don’t. I don’t care. I don’t eat cake anyway. Unless it’s a raw food cake. Now that’s good eating.
